Mutually Assured Destruction
by The Lilac Pilgrim
Summary: After a terrible battle, The Joker lies dying in Arkham. Batman, overcome with guilt, comes to visit, but the Joker has an unusual last request.


Lightning struck Gotham in a sheet of white light. Arkham Asylum, from the view of someone outside the front entrance, was silhouetted in the glaring brightness. From the view of a dying man within his cell, Heaven was taunting him again.

The one at the entrance took a deep breath, the rain falling uninhibitedly from the dark clouds, bouncing heavily off his cowl. It was going to take a lot of courage, facing a dying enemy. Regardless, he knew he'd have to take the first step; the hardest thing to do at that present moment, his legs feeling as though they were made of lead.

Inside the asylum, the dying man felt the same about his failing lungs.

The bat themed vigilante outside bottled up all of his apprehension, head bowed slightly, weighted with the difficult task he was faced with. He managed to push himself forward; he owed it to the dying loon, though exactly why failed him at that time. Stepping inside, there was no turning back, lest his pride take a larger beating than it already had coming here.

Commissioner Gordon was waiting for Batman's arrival in order to accompany him to the patient's cell. Wordlessly, they greeted each other. What could be said in this situation?

Walking down the corridor, the vigilante's feelings were conflicting; his confusion, his anxiety, his fear. It was almost like an old friend was dying instead of his sworn enemy.

_Click._

The cell door unlocked. The two men on the outside exchanged a brief look before the commissioner finally tugged the heavy door open and the caped crusader entered. There was a _clang_ and the door was closed again.

A dying rattle was all that was heard in the darkness.

"Come to rub your victory in my face, Bats?" came the rasping voice of The Joker, weak and faltering in his pain. He appeared to be hooked up to a heart monitor, which beeped solemnly in the background. "That's _low_. Even for you."

"I just came to talk," the Batman murmured, taking a seat by the man's deathbed. He couldn't look him in the face. It was much too awkward. A scoffing cackle sounded bluntly in the cell, punctuated by a strained, wavering breath.

"What's there to talk about? Hmm?" the clown prince's jaundiced green eyes gazed at him, a scathing look burning through him. "I'm dying, you've won, game over."

An uncomfortable silence followed. Bruce stole a look at his nameless enemy's face. It was so alien to him, to see The Joker so weak, so frail, his hair semi-matted, the whites of his eyes a horrid shade of yellow and rolling into his skull, the frozen grin fighting to express his agony. A cough snapped Bruce out of his macabre reverie.

"Thank God I _get it_. Or else I'd be bawling inside instead of laughing."

For the first time that evening, Batman lifted his head to look his enemy straight in the eyes.

"Get it?" he repeated, his features neutral, his mind wracked with confusion. The Joker seemed to snarl incredulously.

"The _joke_, Batman," he croaked, breathing obviously laborious. "I get _the joke_."

Bruce directed his gaze to the floor, away from the death, the fear. _A joke only he knows,_ he thought, looking at the film of dust beneath the maniac's bed.

"You know the joke," the clown continued, shifting to get more comfortable, though at this stage it was no easy task. "At least you know the punch line. But you don't think it's funny. But I think it's funny. It's very funny."

As though to prove his statement, he gave a harsh gurgle of laughter, laughter which easily dissolved into a coughing fit. Batman narrowed his eyes at him.

"How can you laugh at a joke that nobody understands?" he growled, his body becoming tense. Maybe he didn't want to know the answer.

"_I_ understand it," came the grumbling response. "You know, not every joke has a question."

"Not every joke is funny," Batman snapped quickly, much to the amusement of the dying patient, who clapped his hands gleefully, the little energy he had quickly disappearing.

"Very good," he remarked, a joyous note in his weary voice. "Very good _indeed_."

Watching him, Bruce was baffled. How could anyone be so accepting of such a fate? Especially a man like The Joker. He had imagined much worse from the clown prince of crime, more along the lined of demented screaming and the threat of death. _But he's so calm,_ he thought, puzzled. _Any other man in his condition… would be going insane._

A hacking cough broke the silence, cutting into the vigilante like a dagger. This had all happened because of one fight, one fall. It was all his fault. If the Joker died tonight… it would be his fault. Guilt washed over him, an uncomfortable heat burning his skin as he mourned his code, the rule he swore never to break. It hurt him inside, to know that accidentally or not, he could kill. It was… despicable.

"Well Bats," the strained voice from the one in the bed groaned, the pain seemingly getting to him despite what his permanent smile was saying. "Since you're here, I think I deserve a request."

"Request?"

"Yes."

There was a wheeze before either spoke, a sound that indicated to both that the lunatic's lungs were indeed failing.

"I'm in a great deal of pain, Batsy." The clown's eyes flashed an insane smile at the Batman. "That fall took a lot out of me. But it didn't take enough. I need you to finish what you started. Put me down."

"You…" Batman was almost speechless. This didn't sound like the Joker he knew. Assisted suicide didn't seem to be something he would contemplate. But then, people do strange things when they're close to death.

"Want to die? Oh, absolutely. As soon as possible. Preferably quickly, but any way you can is just fine."

Something wasn't right, he was just too jovial. Besides, it was wrong, it was against his code, it was something he could never do…

"You talk about your own life as though it's so trivial," Batman murmured, suspicious eyes glancing over at the ailing Joker. "As though it doesn't matter."

"It matters to me about as much as it matters to you, whether I live or die."

Bruce glowered at him. Of course it mattered to him; he couldn't see himself become a killer. He wouldn't. Not even for someone who wanted it. Not even for a homicidal madman like The Joker.

"It matters to me," Bruce responded, head bowed as he fought with the emotions. "I don't want your blood on my hands."

"Then give me a large dose of morphine and have it done with," the green haired murderer said, a laugh under the words he spoke, his face almost bright and energetic once more. Like a man telling a joke. "No blood involved. A button pressed, a trigger pulled. End it for me, simply put me out of my misery."

"I can't." The caped crusader stood up and turned away. There was a part of him insisting that he owed the man a dying request, no matter what the cost. Another part, overwhelming, was telling him otherwise. Nothing should ever make him compromise his values. "I won't."

"Help me Batman," taunted the dying snarl from behind him. "Find it in _your_ heart to stop _mine_ beating."

"I can't murder, it's not who I am --"

"Not murder, Bats!" A short, sharp laugh echoed in the small cell, ringing in the so-called hero's ears. "Don't see it like that. It's more like you're… helping me. Assisting me."

"I _can't_…"

The dark knight was almost in physical pain from the emotions inside; the confusion, the anxiety, the fear. He was vulnerable in front of his enemy, who lay broken from their last meeting, just as vulnerable as he. And yet it seemed the dying man had the upper hand.

"Anyone can," the Joker insisted, a playful growl in his words. "Just one swift movement and it's all over. It's _easy_. You can even tell them I committed suicide, and you were unable to stop me."

"Why don't you?"

"Hmm?"

Batman turned to face him once more, suspicion overcoming the conflicting emotions.

"Why don't you kill yourself? If it's what you want the most, why don't you do it yourself?"

"But Bats, darling, I can't--"

"Because you don't want to die by your own hand," Batman snarled, leaning over the other man's broken body. "You're still trying to prove that you can best me, that you can get me to your level. Well I won't. I won't play your little game. I won't share in your sick joke."

A look of defeat came over the inmate's chalky countenance, his eyes dull, almost glassy. Death seemed to be approaching, and he had lost the battle. It looked as though the experience was bitter to him. He sighed.

"Fine," he rattled, his breaths becoming more difficult. "Fine. You win. The war is over. And it seems that it is I that faces death first. But… before that… I have just one last request."

"Another one?"

"Yes, another one."

The Joker was positively grinning, a playful glimmer in his eyes as he looked up at Bruce, who was wary of these "requests".

"A kiss."

"What?"

"A goodnight kiss. Surely I deserve that?"

"Seriously?" Bruce couldn't understand it. They had fought tooth-and-nail for years, were always so close to killing one another and the final request was a kiss?

"Yes, Bats… If you truly understand yourself, you'll understand why I'm asking this of you. If you can leap off buildings and fight with girls then surely you can kiss me."

It still seemed an odd request, but reluctantly, he craned forward, attempting to make contact with the macabre jester's forehead. The Joker stopped him.

"No, no, that's cheating," he murmured softly, a mischievous glint in his eye. "On the lips."

"I…"

"Not scared, are you Batsy?" He knew the question he was being asked, but it sounded as though there was a different meaning behind it… he was being asked a different question. To which the answer was no. Tenderly, he leaned forward, his lips meeting the Joker's for only a second or two. It didn't feel nice, nor did it feel bad. It just was. Swiftly, the clown gripped Batman's arm, stinging it with something. Burning pain wracked the vigilante's body as the Joker kept him close.

"Destined to do this forever, weren't we? Cat and mouse?" His grip loosened, weakening as he approached death. "Now we can."

And just as abruptly as he'd grabbed Bruce's arm, the clown prince of crime went completely limp, lying with his head facing the door, his eyes half-shut. Bruce was in immense pain, and he lunged towards the door, trying to escape. As his hand touched the handle, he felt his face being pulled into a grin, muscles tightening against his will as he weakened, slumping over onto the ground. Suddenly, everything fell into place. He knew the question to the punch line.

"I get it now… I get the joke…"

The last thing he heard was a long wailing sound, the monitor that the Joker was hooked up to announcing his death in a loud scream, as the joke finally made sense. Then everything faded to black.


End file.
